Two Tales: Betrothed & Edo and Enam (18 page)

I held down the turmoil within me and asked, “Is he here?” Even as I said this, I was amazed at my own question. Never had I been inside a house where Ginat had been seen.

“Oh, no,” answered Mrs. Greifenbach. “He’s not in.” Well, I thought, that’s clear now. But since they’ve told me that he has rented a room, they must surely have seen him; and if they’ve seen him, they may very well have talked to him; and if they’ve talked to him, perhaps they can tell me something about him. With a great man who shuns publicity and lets nothing be known about himself, even the least bit of information is an unexpected find.

I turned to the Greifenbachs. “May I ask what you know about Ginat?”

“What we know?” answered Greifenbach. “Very little, so little it amounts to less than nothing.”

“How did he turn up at your house?”

“That’s easily answered,” said Greifenbach. “He just rented a room and came to live in it.”

“But how did he get here?” I insisted.

“Well, if you want to know the whole story, I can tell you, though there’s really nothing to tell.”

“Nevertheless, please tell me,” I said.

“One afternoon in summer,” he went on, “we were out on the veranda having tea, when a man with a walking stick and a knapsack came up and asked if we would rent him a room. We aren’t in the habit of renting rooms. Besides, this man didn’t so take my fancy that I felt like changing my ways in order to have him as a roomer. On the other hand, I was thinking, We do have a room that has been empty all these years. We’ve no use for it, and there’s a separate entrance, a shower, and so on. Perhaps it would be worthwhile to rent the room, if not for the money’s sake, at least to do a good turn to someone who wants to live in this modest neighborhood and is plainly a lover of peace and quiet. This fellow went on to say, ‘I promise I won’t give you much trouble. I travel about a great deal and only come to Jerusalem for a rest between one journey and the next. I shall not bring in any visitors, either.’ I took another look at him and could see that it would be a good thing to rent him the room; not for the reasons he gave, but because by now I rather liked him. In fact, I was surprised at myself for not realizing at once what sort of man he was. I looked across at Gerda and could see that she agreed. So I said to him, ‘Very well, the room is yours, on condition that you expect nothing from us; no service or anything at all, except a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp; and the rent will be such-and-such.’ He took out his money and paid down a year’s rent, and he has kept to his side of the bargain ever since, making no demands on us. That’s all I can tell you, besides what I’ve seen about him in the literary supplements to the newspapers, which I’m sure you have also read. I dare say you have read his Hymns, too. So have I, a bit here and a bit there, but I still don’t see why they are so important. I’m not in the habit of expressing my views about matters on which I’m no expert, but I think I can say this: in every generation, some discovery is made that’s regarded as the greatest thing that ever was. Eventually it’s forgotten, for meanwhile some new discovery comes to light. No doubt that goes, too, for the discoveries of Dr. Ginat.”

I let these remarks pass and returned to the main question, concerning Dr. Ginat himself. “My guess is that Gerda could tell me more,” I said.

Mrs. Greifenbach looked at me, surprised that I should credit her with knowledge she didn’t possess. She hesitated for a moment, reflected for still another, then said, “I really don’t know any more than what Gerhard has told you. There’s a separate entrance to the room, we don’t have to keep it tidy, and our hard working cleaning woman Grazia, as you know, isn’t keen on extra work. Since we gave Ginat the key to his room, I’ve not been in it, nor have I seen him; after staying here one night, he went off and didn’t come back for months.”

Having said this, Mrs. Greifenbach began speaking again about their intended journey, throwing in at the same time a sort of complaint. “Your head is so full of our tenant,” she said, “that you don’t listen to what we are saying.”

“Possibly,” I answered.

“Don’t just say ‘possibly,’” she went on, “you must admit that it’s absolutely true.”

“Heaven forbid that I should contradict you, but please tell me more about Ginat.”

“Haven’t I already told you, he only stayed one night and went away next morning.”

“And didn’t you say, too, that he came back? Very well, when he came back what did he do?”

“Do? He closed the door and stayed in his room.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Oh, he may have been drawing the pyramids to scale or writing a third part to
Faust.
How do I know?”

I looked hard at her for some time, but she only laughed and said, “I see you want to turn me into a detective.”

“No,” I answered, “I don’t want you to be a detective. I simply want to hear more about Ginat.”

I’ve told you,” she said. “Since we gave him his key, I’ve not spoken to him.”

“But what did he do when he came back?”

“I’m sure he did one of the things I’ve mentioned. Which it was, I’ve not troubled myself to find out.”

“Gerda,” said Greifenbach, “just hasn’t got that quality women are noted for. She isn’t the least bit curious.”

Gerda tapped her long, slender fingers on his hairy hands, saying, “
You
have enough of that quality for both of us. So you tell him.”

“Who, me??” Greifenbach exclaimed in surprise. “Even I can’t tell him about things that never were.”

“So you really want me to tell him,” said Gerda. “Wasn’t it you who said Dr. Ginat had created a girl for himself?”

Greifenbach laughed a long and happy laugh. “Do you know what Gerda’s referring to? She’s thinking of the legend about the lonely poet – I’ve forgotten his name – who was said to have created a woman to serve his needs. Are you familiar with that legend?”

“It was Rabbi Solomon Ibn Gabirol,” I said, “and if you are interested, this is how the story ends. News of the affair spread about until it reached the king, who gave orders for the woman to be brought before him. The king saw her and fell in love with her, but she ignored him. They went and brought Rabbi Solomon Ibn Gabirol. When he came he showed the king that she was not a real creature, only pieces of wood made up into the likeness of a woman. But what has this legend to do with Dr. Ginat?”

Mrs. Greifenbach said, “One night, Gerhard and I were sitting together reading Goethe when we heard a voice coming from Ginat’s room. We knew that Ginat was back from his travels and that he was in there reading. We began our own reading again, and again the voice came through. Gerhard put his book down and said, ‘That’s a woman’s voice.’ But it wasn’t only the idea of Ginat bringing a woman to his room that surprised us; it was the language she spoke, some strange tongue we had never heard before. Gerhard whispered to me, ‘Ginat must have created a girl for himself, and there she is talking to him in her own language.’ My dear, that’s all I can tell you about Ginat. If you want to know more, ask Gerhard. He loves to make conjectures and treat them as proven facts.”

Greifenbach, who had made a hobby of philology, began to speak of the mysteries of language and all the new discoveries in that field. I added something of what I had learned from the literature of the Kabbalah, which in this matter has anticipated academic scholarship. Mrs. Greifenbach interrupted us by saying, “The woman sang, too, in a strange language we knew nothing about. Judging by her voice, I’d say she was sad and bitter. Gerhard, where have you hidden the present our tenant gave you the morning after our anniversary? What pity you weren’t there, my dear. Our wedding, you know, was a very simple affair, but we made up for it with our party ten years after. Don’t be lazy, Gerhard; get up and show him what Ginat gave you.”

Greifenbach got up, opened an iron box, and took out two parched brown leaves that resembled leaves of old tobacco. He set them before me with pride and watched for my reaction. From the look on his face it was clear that he believed he was exhibiting a rare possession. I glanced at the leaves for a moment and then asked what they were.

“Look again,” he said. I looked again but could see nothing except certain strange lines and markings which might be taken, if one were so inclined, for letters of a secret code.

“What is all this?” I insisted.

Greifenbach answered, “I know only what Ginat told me, and what he said was that they are talismans. What kind of talismans he didn’t say, but he told me that he has a collection of such things, and these leaves are duplicates and come from a far-off country. It’s a pity they have no power against burglers.”

“Perhaps,” said Gerda, “those that Ginat kept for himself do have that power.”

Greifenbach lit his pipe and sat silent, as if preoccupied with his own thoughts. After a while he knocked out the ash and took a cigarette. He lit up and went on, “You see, whatever we find to talk about leads us back to our worries about the house. As for the squatters, it’s even possible that right is on their side. A young fellow, let us say, comes back after the war. He needs a roof over his head and can’t find one. What’s he to do but break in somewhere? Let me tell you something. One Saturday evening I was standing at a bus stop. The bus was full up and passengers were still pressing in. The driver sounded his horn and drove off. All the people left behind stood about miserably as they waited for a second bus. But, of course, it never came; the more passengers there are, the fewer the buses, as is always the case in Jerusalem. A couple were standing together, a young fellow and a girl. The girl was looking at him with passionate longing. ‘Günther,’ she said, ‘it’s over a year since we were married and we’ve still not spent a single night alone together.’ The fellow squeezed his young wife’s hand, sucked his lips in and was silent with grief and anger. Günther and his wife haven’t found a home for themselves. They live apart, wherever they happen to be. The landlords make difficulties about their visiting one another, hoping that they will get tired of their rooms and leave them, because meanwhile the number of people wanting apartments has increased and the number of rooms available has become less, and if they leave, the landlords can raise the rent. They meet each other in cafés and amusement places and separate to go back to their rooms at the opposite ends of the town, all because they have no place where they can live together. So now you know why we are so scared about our home. In fact, we got into such a state that one night Gerda woke me up because she thought someone was walking on the roof.”

“You are always telling tales about me,” said Mrs. Greifenbach. “Why don’t you tell him what
you
said?”

“I said nothing. I don’t remember saying anything.”

“Do you want me to remind you?” said Gerda.

Gerhard laughed heartily. “And if I don’t want you to, does that mean you won’t tell him?”

“If it weren’t so funny,” said Gerda, “I wouldn’t repeat it. Do you know what this master mind had to say? He said, in these very words, ‘It must be the girl Ginat created, taking a stroll on the roof.’”

Greifenbach laid down his cigarette, took up his pipe again, and remarked to me, “Do you really believe I said that?”

“Who wouldn’t believe a lovely girl like Gerda?”

Mrs. Greifenbach laughed. “A lovely girl, indeed,” she said, “whose wedding canopy has been pressing on her head for ten years now!”

“Have you two really been married for ten years already?”

“Those leaves,” said Gerda, “which Ginat gave to Gerhard were his present on our tenth anniversary. If they came into just anybody’s hands he’d probably break them up as tobacco for his pipe. He wouldn’t know there was magic in them. To tell the truth, we wouldn’t have known either if we hadn’t heard it from Ginat; and we believe him, because he’s quite without guile. Well, tomorrow we start on our travels, and I don’t know whether I should feel glad or sorry.”

Without thinking about it much, I said to Gerda, “You’ve no need to feel sorry. I’ll take it upon me to keep an eye on your house, and if I think it necessary, I’ll stay here for two or three nights.”

The Greifenbachs were delighted at this offer. “Now we can travel with an easy mind,” they said.

“Surely you don’t have to thank me,” I added.

“Really, it’s I who ought to thank you; your house is a wonderful place for sleep, as I learned on curfew nights.”

My remark brought back to mind that troubled time, when people who went into the city could not get home again because the Mandate government had suddenly proclaimed a curfew. Anyone out on the Street who lived away from the center and couldn’t find shelter in town would be taken by the police and locked up in jail for the night. His family, not knowing where he had disappeared to, would be worried to death. And this had led to other oppressive decrees against us, decrees which at the time seemed to be in the very nature of life in this country. So we talked on about the curfew nights. Yet, evil and oppressive as they were, some little good came of them. People were obliged to stay at home and as a result gave thought to their wives and children, which they had not been accustomed to doing when they spent their evenings at assemblies, councils, meetings and the like, all of which estrange a man from himself and, needless to say, from his family. You might even say that public affairs benefited; with fewer meetings and debates things worked out in their own way, and in spite of it all turned out for the best. Another positive result of the curfew nights was that many bachelors, compelled to stay indoors, came to know the daughters of the house and ended up marrying them.

So we sat and talked, the Greifenbachs and I, until I said it was time for me to go. Greifenbach gave me the key of the house and showed me all its entrances and exits. Soon afterwards I parted from him and his wife and went on my way.

II

One day at sunset I went out to get myself some bread and olives. My wife and children had gone away to Gederah, and I was left to provide for myself. Carrying my bread and olives, I strolled about among the shops. I had no desire to go home, since no one was there and there was nothing I especially wished to do at the day’s end. Walking on aimlessly, letting my feet carry me where they wished, I found I had come to the valley where the Greifenbach’s house stood. In the stillness that fills the valleys of Jerusalem at sunset all manner of blessings abide. It is as if the valleys were cut off from the settled land around them; as if they contained in their depths the whole world. And this valley especially is ringed with a crown of trees through which beneficent vapors flow, keeping it free from the taint of malign airs. I said to myself, Since I am here, I shall go and see how things stand at the Greifenbachs’ house; and since I have the key in my pocket, I may as well go inside.